


no grave can hold my body down (i'll crawl home)

by unfinishedlines



Category: Community (TV)
Genre: Abed as a director, Abed in LA, Abed is successful in Hollywood, Abed needs a hug, Abed-centric, Angst with a Happy Ending, But it's about getting over it!, Combined with Donald Glover's comment that Troy is dead from the reunion Q&A, I hate the idea but I love angst so I had to write it, I listened to Work Song by Hozier and this happened, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Inspector Spacetime - Freeform, Internalized Homophobia, Kickpuncher, Love Confessions, Love Letters, M/M, Message in a bottle, Not A Fix-It, Post-Canon, Post-Season/Series 06, Troy POV at one point
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-17
Updated: 2020-06-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:20:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24764515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unfinishedlines/pseuds/unfinishedlines
Summary: To whoever’s reading right now,he heard Troy say in a voice-over customary of letter-reading scenes,hi. Thanks for picking this up. Bet you can’t believe there’s actually a message in this bottle, huh?Years after Abed moves to L.A., Troy finds his way back into Abed's life—but not how either expected.
Relationships: Annie Edison & Abed Nadir, Troy Barnes/Abed Nadir
Comments: 58
Kudos: 153





	no grave can hold my body down (i'll crawl home)

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, Community fandom! I've spent the past month watching this amazing show (thanks, Netflix!) and what started as a way to pass the time during quarantine has blossomed into an obsession, culminating in this story. 
> 
> I actually haven't written fanfic in a long time, but this fandom is so welcoming and so damn creative, and I am so in love with these boys, I just had to. Thank you to all the amazing creators for inspiring me to come back. I missed this.
> 
> The title is from Work Song by Hozier.
> 
> Please read, kudo, comment, and enjoy!

Troy hadn’t sent a single letter in six months—not a package, not an envelope, not so much as a postcard. They had always been scarce, like his internet connection and his cell service, but, like those, constant enough in Annie and Abed’s lives that the absence was clearly and painfully felt. Annie checked their mailbox every day twice a day even as the weeks passed, hoping for a change, refusing to be deterred. She’d gone so far as to ask their neighbors to check their mail for anything from him. 

“Maybe the mailman put it in the wrong slot,” she had said when Abed had questioned that move, her voice rising in pitch with what he had learned to recognize as desperation. He’d nodded for her sake, and the first time, he’d entertained the possibility. But neither could suspend their disbelief for six months.

Their concern worsened when Troy hadn’t moved in three months. Despite the upheaval that the discovery of Abed’s trackers had caused in the group, Troy had chosen to keep his. “It’ll be like you’re traveling with me,” he’d said as he pointed at the bright green dot gleaming beside Abed’s on the computer screen. The next time Abed checked his location, Troy’s dot was two states away. Annie had gotten her tracker removed, so only he appeared in their apartment. His dot looked lonely.

Abed had realized very quickly that following a dot moving along his computer screen was _nothing_ like sailing around the world with his best friend and LeVar Burton, but it did bring him comfort. That little dot grounded him. So much of the situation was riddled with confusion and uncertainty, but he could cast aside everything he didn’t know and focus on the fact that he knew where Troy was. Annie also benefited from it. She appreciated that she could research where he was headed beforehand to ask specific questions in her letters and know what she wanted when he got them souvenirs.

They didn’t check it often, but it didn’t take close monitoring to realize Troy’s dot had been hovering in the same spot in the Gulf of Mexico for too long. Annie thought the tracker had broken despite the fact that Abed pointed out the program continued to receive and process signals from it every five minutes. She held onto that belief as one month became two, and then three. Abed tried not to scroll to Pierce’s grave where his dot continued to gleam, years after the man wearing it had ceased breathing. Abed tried to silence the whines that clawed at his throat whenever he couldn’t help himself.

The study group begged him to disconnect the tracker after almost five months had passed since the last time Troy’s dot moved. “I know it’s scary, but transitional objects are called that for a reason,” Britta said, her hand squeezing his in what he assumed was a reassuring gesture—even though it didn’t feel reassuring—before Jeff smacked her shoulder and told her psychology wasn’t a real science. He finally agreed when he’d noticed the bags beneath Annie’s eyes. She had stayed up every night that week holding him until he lost his voice and he settled into an uneasy sleep, their apartment illuminated only by the bright blue glow of his computer and that maddeningly unmoving green dot.

He liked _The Great Gatsby_ as much as the next Luhrmann fan, but he’d never planned a bit referencing it, and he’d always felt more akin to Nick’s aloof narration anyway. Yet as he stared at those eye bags from across the table, Abed realized that he’d unwittingly cast Annie as the Nick to his Gatsby, and he processed the damage it was causing her. The damage _he_ was causing her. She made a lousy Nick Carraway. He needed to put her out of her misery. The swiftest way to do it was for him to stop being Gatsby, and what would Gatsby be without the green light across the bay?

Either way, this story ended in tragedy, and with Daisy somewhere neither Nick nor Gatsby could reach. That was inevitable. At least in Abed’s version, there were no swimming pools involved. Those were special effects he had no space for in the budget.

He hadn’t thought about that tracker in years—he never did reenact _Gatsby_ — when his agent approached him while he was picking out a snack from the catering table on the set of his show, _The Darkest Timeline_ , where they were filming the season finale.

“Mr. Nadir!” she exclaimed breathlessly. Had she run here? He tilted his head as she added in a gasp, “it’s him!”

“Abed’s fine, you know this,” he said, even though previous experience dictated that she’d keep addressing him formally regardless. “And I don’t have any appointments today. I’m on a hot set.”

She shook her head with another heaving breath. She took a moment to recover, then spoke, “Troy Barnes is in your office.”

Abed dropped the apple in his hand, mostly because he knew this was a big revelation, and objects were always being dropped after a big revelation—particularly in sitcoms, which was the lens he liked filming his life with best—but the shock making his muscles spasm certainly helped make the movement seem more organic.

Abed liked to think of Caroline, his agent since he first moved to L.A., as his friend. She hadn’t had much luck the last few years in acting, which was her true passion, and even though Abed didn’t really need an agent in those days, he’d taken her under his wing to help her pay the bills while staying close to casting calls. Her knowledge of films and TV shows could rival his own—a fact he'd been pleased to find out early on. Birds of a feather had to stick together.

She didn’t know much about Troy. He did not try to hide his Greendale years—in fact, in interviews, he often called them the best years of his life—but he did omit Troy from the stories he told. From the moment he'd disconnected that tracker, Abed assumed Troy was dead. He'd buried him, mourned him, and in moving to L.A., sought a path to move on from him. For a while, he thought he had. But he couldn't suspend his disbelief forever.

She didn’t know much about Troy, but she knew more than anyone else in California. A fact he’d been less pleased to find out early on was that it was nearly impossible to talk about himself without Troy also being in the picture. When plans for a _Kickpuncher_ reboot were announced a month ago, and Abed had begged Caroline to look into any way he could join the project, and she’d asked why he wanted to be part of a dead franchise, he found there was no answer that did not involve him.

“It reminds me of an old friend,” he’d settled on as an explanation, thinking it was sufficient, but he knew by the quirk of her brow that she’d need more.

“Your roommate, Annie?” she asked, though she didn’t look sure.

He shook his head. “Troy,” he answered. “It’s not your fault that you didn’t guess correctly. You couldn’t have known.”

She lowered the screen of her computer. “You’ve never mentioned a Troy before,” she said unnecessarily. Abed supposed he hadn’t expressed himself well enough earlier, so he tried again.

“Yeah. I try not to.”

Abed expected invasive questions. He could practically hear Caroline’s voice in his head ask why, what happened, how come this Troy’s been relegated to history?

She surprised him when, after an appropriately-placed pause, she asked, “did he introduce you to _Kickpuncher_?”

He blinked twice. “I don’t remember, actually. I think _I_ introduced it to him.”

She nodded, leaning forward, placing her chin on the bridge formed by her hands. Abed sat on the couch in his office, ready to share a story or two if it meant convincing Caroline to get his name attached to the reboot. He had anticipated there would be resistance from her part about the project, but not that he would spend the next hour telling her about the costumes they assembled and the various pseudo-sequels they filmed and the conventions they went to and the posters they hung in their apartment together. 

Once Abed started talking about him, as he hadn’t in years, he realized he didn’t want to stop. All these stories had been sitting on his lips, begging to be told. Troy had been sitting on the edge of his mind, begging to be remembered.

Caroline let out a raucous laugh as Abed faded out from the latest antic he’d described to her in cinematic detail. “My God, Mr. Nadir,” she breathed out, “that’s insane! I wish I could meet him. He sounds like an amazing guy.”

Abed sunk into the couch. Caroline noticed the precipitous drop in his mood and leaned back in her chair, too. The white noise pain in his chest that he’d been suppressing every day since the green dot stopped moving surged and expanded, numbing all but his extremities. He picked at his fingers, grounded by the sensation of his nails against his skin. “You can’t,” he said, looking down, not trusting himself to say more without his voice cracking. He hated it when his voice cracked. He hated this low-level anguish he couldn’t pinpoint, couldn’t soothe, couldn’t release, couldn’t do anything but carry.

He wasn’t surprised this time around when she withheld her questions. She stood up, packed her computer, and said she’d see what she could do about the reboot before leaving the office. She had gotten him the director’s chair on the project. She had not brought Troy up again. 

At least, not until today, her face beaming, not realizing how what she had just said defied all logic and fate and narrative rules.

He felt his eyes widen as he looked at her, at the set’s door, at his actors and crew. He grabbed a nearby megaphone and spoke, “take five, everyone!” to various confused looks and Caroline’s applause before sprinting out toward him.

Abed hadn’t had time to prepare. As he ran, he flipped through the expansive list of famous reunions in his head, trying to choose which one to reference. He only got to reunite with Troy once, so he had to make it count. 

The ones from _Lost_ were the first to go. That finale did not deserve any kind of reenactment. It was a disgrace to television.

Michael and Dwight from _The Office_? No, he couldn’t stage a wedding with this short of a notice. 

He then considered Jaime and Claire’s reunion from _Outlander_ —he would love to see Troy’s expression when he fainted—until he realized he wouldn’t appreciate it since that episode aired after he left. He made a mental note to catch him up on _Outlander_ then kept thinking. 

Had this occurred before he moved to L.A., he would’ve considered Zuko and Iroh so he could pat himself in the back for forgiving what he had once perceived as Troy’s greatest betrayal, but grief had snuffed out his anger for far too many years now to pull off the emotional notes of that reenactment, and _Avatar_ deserved to be done right. 

Finding no boats in sight, he crossed _Romancing The Stone_ off the list.

As he swerved to avoid a golf cart and turned the corner to face his office, he thought of the perfect reunion: the _Inspector Spacetime_ Christmas special from Troy’s favorite Inspector’s run. Geneva had been the wife of the Inspector Abed preferred, but his successor had gotten to reunite with her for one last adventure, and because it was a different actor playing him, she hadn't recognized him until a poignant scene in the episode's emotional peak. Not only was it one of their favorite episodes, but it fit the emotional undercurrents of this reunion as well. His Scottish accent wasn't the best, but he knew Troy would forgive him that.

Abed, buzzing with foreign and intoxicating hope, pulled at the collar of his dress shirt and took a deep breath before opening the door of his office.

"Hello, darl—" he started, then froze in place. “You’re not Troy.”

It wasn’t that he couldn’t recognize him because a long time had passed. That was a trope he’d never really liked. It was a lazy way to indicate character growth without needing to write a satisfying character arc. It’s part of the reason why he liked the Christmas special this stranger was preventing him from reenacting. It subverted the trope by showing how, despite how the Inspector had physically changed, he was still the same. He liked the idea that no matter the time and no matter the space, there were always constants to salvage.

No amount of time or space could turn Troy white, as the man before him was—save for the blush decorating his face up to his ears. He could have dyed his hair blonde and straightened it, but he didn’t see why he would. He’d most likely grown a beard; if he had trouble finding Wi-Fi, he supposed finding shaving cream would also be complicated, especially since Troy was so particular about his shaving cream due to his sensitive skin. To this stranger’s credit, his eyes were the same coffee brown. Also to this stranger’s credit, Abed hadn’t told Caroline what Troy looked like. 

The man scratched the back of his neck in what Abed recognized as a physical cue of embarrassment. So this deception hadn’t been intentional. Further convincing him that he’d done this by mistake, he said, “ah, no. Sir. The name’s Jack.” He added, after a moment, “Atner.”

Abed tilted his head. If this had not been intentional, then why lie about his name? And why with _that_ name? “Why say you’re Troy?”

“Your assistant—very nice lady—didn’t hear me quite right. I mentioned Troy Barnes and she, ah, ran away. I didn’t know what to do so I, um, I stayed here. Waiting for you. Sir. Sorry about that.”

“Agent,” Abed corrected, then added, “how do you know that name?” He hoped to get this all cleared up soon because he was treading dangerous _Batman v Superman_ territory here, which he detested doing. 

“This,” Jack said as he extended toward him a black sports water bottle. Abed took it, and upon turning it around, found the Greendale logo he and the study group had designed years ago facing him, worn and faded but still indubitably a butthole. When he looked up, Jack continued explaining, “inside. There are two letters. The first one explains that Troy Barnes wrote the second one for an Abed Nadir. You’re lucky I found it on a beach clean-up this morning, sir. My daughter’s a great fan of your films—she, um, actually wants to be a director because of you—and the whole family loves _The Darkest Timeline_. I recognized your name and brought it here.”

As Abed unscrewed the bottle, Jack ranted. “I figured it was you. There might be many other Abed Nadirs out there, but, you know. You’re the only one I know, and the only one nearby, I bet. I liked my odds.” He took a shaky breath. “Is it you? I think it’s you. This is gonna be mighty awkward if it’s not you.” He cleared his throat. “Sir.”

Abed nodded as he said, “no need to call me sir. Abed’s fine.” 

Jack chuckled. “Wait ‘til Sarah hears about this!”

Several papers, somewhat yellow and worn away at the corners, were folded into each other. Abed placed the water bottle on his desk to examine later and turned to Jack.

“Cool. Cool, cool, cool. Thank you. This means a lot,” he told him, giving him the grin he’d spent many nights perfecting for award show ceremonies when he first moved to L.A.

“Oh, ah, no problem, sir—I mean, _Abed_ ,” he said, looking like a kid in a candy store when he said his name. 

“Will fifty dollars do?” he asked as he reached for his wallet. Jack gasped and put his hands in front of him, which made Abed stop. That wasn’t the reaction he expected.

He scratched his neck again. Maybe he hadn’t been embarrassed, and he just had dry skin. “I don’t need any reward. Really. It’s no problem.”

“I have to repay you somehow. It’s standard for situations like these.”

“Seriously, I don’t—”

“I insist.”

Jack swayed in place for a moment as he thought. Then, his eyes lit up. “Well, ah, actually, my daughter Sarah’s been wondering something about _The Darkest Timeline_.”

Abed straightened, his interest peaked. This was an unprecedented turn of events.

“You know how, um, the gang’s trying to figure out what, well, what caused the Darkest Timeline to, ah, be dark?” he prefaced, then scoffed, “of course you know, it’s your show.” He cleared his throat and continued, “well, ah, she’s always thought of the show as a, um, forgive me for the assumption, a love story. Between Danny and the Shadow. Because only he can interact with the Shadow. She sees that as, ah, representing a special sort of bond. So, um, is that—is that it? Is the absence of… whoever the Shadow was that, well, that turned the timeline dark for him?”

Only in that moment did Abed realize how neat of a solution that was. But of course, he had Christopher Nolan-ed it. 

If he was being honest, he hadn’t planned that far ahead when he started writing _The Darkest Timeline_. He’d determined the root causes for the other characters as he went along, dedicating a season to exploring each, but he’d left Danny for last because he struggled with him the most. Abed saw too much of himself in him.

They were due to begin production of his season within the calendar year.

He first started working on the script at Greendale. After he’d almost cut off Jeff’s arm, he kept thinking about Evil Abed’s plan to darken their timeline, which evolved into the idea that rebels of the Darkest Timeline jumped to the others trying to find ways to redeem their own. A character loosely based on Troy had been the focus of the first season in early drafts of the show, but when he’d left on the _Childish Tycoon_ , he edited him out and replaced him with an Annie-like spunky heroine in a rage-fueled rampage. He’d abandoned the idea to focus on his films. Then, when he disconnected the tracker, he returned to the project and recycled him as the Shadow. He was not part of any of the plotlines. He was inconsequential, really, to all but Danny. Were Abed of a more melodramatic disposition, he would call him Danny’s tragic backstory. 

It was a complete affront to one of Abed’s sacred rules, Chekhov's Gun, but he was fun to write and both the story and Danny felt hollow without the Shadow there, so he kept him. He justified his existence to himself as developing and fleshing out Danny’s character. The public agreed. As the seasons progressed, their interactions increased, and with them, the cult following of the show. Abed was conscious of the popular interest for a romantic storyline with them, but, while he never shut it down publicly, he ignored it. 

Seeing his story from a distance, though, Abed realized there was no other satisfying conclusion. He’d subconsciously been writing a romantic arc all along. 

From the corner of his eye, the water bottle taunted him. He could call it subconscious all he wanted, but he knew what he’d been doing. He’d given up suspending his disbelief about his feelings for Troy years ago, but old habits die hard, and that had turned into his refusal to acknowledge Danny and the Shadow’s tension—despite the fact that he’d tested for chemistry between the actors when he cast the roles. Abed tried to think of his characters as separate from himself and his life, even if they were often based on himself and his life, but there came a point that he realized that he _was_ Danny and Troy _was_ the Shadow, and it affected how he handled the characters. To live out the romantic fantasies he once had on national television felt disrespectful to Troy’s memory and to their friendship. 

So he strived to write them as playful, capturing only the best of what they used to be, but a sense of nostalgia and tragedy he couldn’t shake from his own chest dominated every scene they shared. Ironically enough, that balance of playfulness, nostalgia, and tragedy had gotten him and Danny’s actor, Will, an Emmy their first year.

He had not planned far ahead when he started writing _The Darkest Timeline_ , but he knew he had never considered bringing the Shadow back and restoring him to the character he was before Troy left because he never considered Troy would return.

And he still hadn’t. Not in the way he expected, at least—with a beard and sunburns and open arms and a future ahead of him. But that water bottle had finished his journey around the world and come back to him. That was more than he’d allowed himself to hope for since the green dot died, and that was enough. 

Defying all logic and fate and narrative rules, Troy Barnes was in his office.

Could Danny get a reunion, too?

“Uh, Abed? Mr. Nadir? Sir?” Jack said, waving his hand in front of his face. “If that’s too big of a spoiler, it’s, ah, it’s all right. You don’t have to answer. An autograph’s fine,” he said as Abed blinked and returned to the present moment. 

Abed shook his head. “Tell your daughter she’s a genius,” he said, reaching for a post-it and a pen. He wrote his name and phone number on it and started to hand it to him. He stopped and added his signature at the bottom, then gave it over. “And that if she ever wants to talk, director to director, she can call me. We could have lunch sometime.”

The post-it shivered in Jack’s hand. He scratched his neck for the third time since they’d started talking. Abed thought Jack should get that checked out, but he didn’t know how to bring it up.

“I—I’m speechless,” Jack whispered. “Thank you so much.”

Abed gave him a small smile. “As you said, it’s no problem.”

Jack nodded, tucked the post-it in his pocket, and left his office. When Abed looked through his window, Jack waved, and he waved back. Then, he turned the corner and disappeared from view.

Now alone and with ideas for Danny’s season finally in his head, he shifted his attention to Troy’s water bottle. 

“Hello, darling,” Abed said, finishing the bit from _Inspector Spacetime_ , as he picked it up and took it to his couch. He sat and unscrewed the lid again. Sand covered his fingers. He brushed it away on his shirt before taking out the first letter, which was a single page long. The date at the top indicated Troy had written this in May of 2015—with a question mark after May. If Troy was right, that was around when the dot stopped moving. The white noise pain settled uneasily on his stomach.

 _To whoever’s reading right now,_ he heard Troy say in a voice-over customary of letter-reading scenes, _hi. Thanks for picking this up. Bet you can’t believe there’s actually a message in this bottle, huh?_

_First of all, I just made your life a little cooler, so you’re welcome._

Abed chuckled, though it sounded more like a wounded, guttural sound.

_Second of all, I know we just met, but I gotta ask you a favor. There’s another message in this bottle—no peeking!—and I need your help getting it to the person it’s intended to. Unless you’re already Abed, in which case, hey bud! Get on to the next letter!_

_But I know the chances of that happening, however AMAZING that would be, are slim, so I’m gonna work on the assumption you aren’t already Abed. This is probably wrinkling your brain, so let me get on with it. Stick with me here._

_Please deliver this water bottle and its contents to Abed Gobi Nadir. He’s a tall dude, about 6’0”, with (probably still) short, straight brown hair parted to the right and brown eyes. He’s really into movies—like, REALLY into movies—and lives at 3624 Dresser Avenue in Apartment 303. That’s in Greendale, Colorado. Yeah, before you start, I know Colorado is a landlocked state, but the postal service exists for a reason, you know._

_Hopefully, this ends up on an American shore, but if it doesn’t, that’s in the United States. International shipping also exists. I think._

_Last I heard of him, Abed lived there. He might live somewhere else, though. In that case, contact Annie Edison. Her number is (303) 555-0126. She’ll know where he is._

Annie did. She’d flown from Virginia to visit him right after he moved.

_I have no real way of making sure you get this to him or that you don’t read the second letter. I’d rather you didn’t, but if you do read it, you’ll probably only be confused, so whatever, I guess. Knock yourself out. But please, PLEASE try your best to get this to him. He’s my best friend, and in the second letter are the last words I’ll ever get to say to him. By the time this ends up ashore, I’ll be dead. Try living with that on your conscience._

Abed stopped, surprised by the tear he blinked out. He wiped at his eyes, clearing his vision. He still had the second letter—the one actually meant for him—left to read. Swallowing down his heart, he resumed reading.

_Sorry for burdening you with a man’s last wish, but, hey, on the bright side, if this was a movie, this would be the beginning of your hero’s journey! You might just meet your other half helping me reunite with mine._

_So go, set off on your great quest, and please don’t throw me in the trash. Pretty please? With a cherry on top?_

_Thanks in advance,_

_Troy Barnes._

Abed set the letter down and wiped away more tears with his sleeve. If anyone were to ask, he would say he was recreating the last letter scene from _The Notebook_ , but the truth was he was too tired to do a bit—and he’d need to be in a car to do it right. 

With a shaky breath yet steady hands, he reached into the water bottle and pulled out the remaining stack of papers. The first page had the same date—and the same question mark—on it as the previous letter. He settled into the couch and resumed the voice-over in his head. He was surprised he remembered what Troy sounded like.

_Dear Abed,_

_Remember those homing pigeon genes you used to clone me? They’re not on me anymore. I removed them, but for a good reason, I swear. In a complex, dangerous, sciencey procedure I don’t have enough paper to describe, I passed them onto this letter. It wasn’t an easy decision to make. I turned to it as a last resort. In all honesty, this whole plan is a giant Hail Mary. The chances of this actually finding its way to you are next to none, but I gotta try. By giving it the genes, at least I know I did everything I could. See, you were right. I definitely felt that compulsion to come back you told me about, and I had to make sure the letter did, too. It’s the most of me that’ll get to come home to you._

_Lucky-ass letter._

_Long story short, I got captured by pirates. Awesome, right? Who knew pirates still existed? If the circumstances were a little different, it’d be the stuff of dreams. I’m not saying this to make you jealous, though. It sounds cooler than it actually was. You didn’t miss much. It was NOTHING like_ Pirates of the Caribbean _—no Orlando Blooms or Johnny Depps to be seen. They didn’t even have fancy hats! Or swords! Or parrots! They looked like dudes you’d run into at, like, a gas station or something. They were a bunch of thugs with boats—a total disgrace to the pirate legacy. They’ve definitely never seen the movies. You would’ve told them off._

_Long story long, LeVar and I anchored in the Gulf of Mexico for the night around April when this speedboat came out of nowhere and, before we could stop them, pirates got a hold of the ship. I think LeVar managed to send out a distress signal, but I’m not sure. They zip-tied us up—I know!—in one of the lower rooms and then spent a long time calling different people. I don’t know who they were calling. They only spoke Spanish. Made me wish Chang had actually taught us something. Made me think of you._

_I tried beatboxing to communicate at one point, cause I can pretty much only rap in Spanish, but they put tape over my mouth—I KNOW!—and shut me up. They might not have been good pirates, but they were great kidnappers. The whole situation went down like_ Taken _. I wish LeVar had worked with Liam Neeson. Maybe everything would have turned out differently if he had._

 _I think they were trying to ransom us. Yeah, us. I know, it’s a DUMB plan, but I can’t blame them._ The Childish Tycoon _stands out. Pierce had expensive taste. And I guess LeVar Burton would stand out, too, but I don’t know if he’s famous in Latin America._

_It didn’t work, obviously. I heard my grandma’s name, but, knowing her, she assumed they were scam callers. Ever since those Nigerian prince emails, she doesn’t trust strangers. I guess she hung up on them. I didn’t give them your number, or any numbers from the study group. I didn’t wanna get you guys in trouble. I knew you would have to go to great lengths to get the sum they were throwing around, and I didn’t want to put you through that. You can get angry at me, but I’m not going to apologize for that. Honestly, I don’t think it would’ve made a difference. You and I have seen enough movies to know._

_LeVar was more cooperative, seeing as he was friends with big Hollywood stars, but they couldn’t get through all their secretaries and managers. They got put on hold an embarrassing number of times. Even tied up and everything, it was HILARIOUS._

_This went on for, like, a month or so, I think. It might have been two. They realized they couldn’t make a buck out of us, I guess, cause the pirates sailed to a random island and they threw me off. I don’t know what happened to LeVar. I hope he’s okay. I don’t know, though. I hate not knowing._

_Anyway! Now I’m Tom Hanks in_ Cast Away _. I don’t remember half of that movie—you always liked it more than I did—and I got nothing but my backpack on me. It’d be real useful having you here, man, reminding me of the plot. I’ve missed your film knowledge SO much. Don’t worry, I don’t have a Wilson—mostly cause I didn’t pack a volleyball, to be honest. Tom Hanks supposedly survived on his island for four years, but now that I’ve actually tried to survive alone on an island, I don’t see how. Must’ve been some weird magical island he ended up in. I got the short end of the island!_

 _Look, I’m REALLY trying to keep this letter cheery cause I’m not about to send a depressive rant across the ocean as my last words to you, and cause I know you and reality aren’t on the best terms, but there’s only so much I can sugarcoat. Abed, I’m fucked. It’s the hard, not-_ Cast Away _truth of being marooned on an island. I’m doing the best I can—honest!—but I haven’t eaten in days, and I’m running out of water. I’m terrified. I’d be crying, but I know that it’ll dehydrate me faster. My whole brain is crying, though._

_But, as I said, that’s not the point of this letter. Sure, this whole thing sucks, but even though it all went sideways by the end, I don’t regret going on this trip. I’m gonna die having seen the world and knowing who I am. And on top of that, I got to have an actual conversation with LeVar Burton AND meet actual pirates before I died! There are very few people who get to say that. I didn’t get a lot of time, but I crossed off almost everything on my bucket list. Almost._

_We’ve already had this kind of conversation before, and back then, I told you that I know you hate it when people do this in movies, but now that I’m in a movie-character situation, I gotta side with the movies. I can see why they do it. Yes, you said confessions made right before a character dies were “half-hearted attempts at emotional climaxes”. But, you see, there’s just some things that are REAL hard to say, bud. So, you keep them all up inside, punch them down until you can’t see them, so others can’t see them, and you carry them around. But knowing you’re gonna die really makes you forget about all those trivial things like pride and shame and stuff that make saying those things hard. When your days are numbered, there’s no time to be self-conscious. And without those things constantly punching down what you wanna say, they just, like, jump out of you._

_I spent a lot of my time at Greendale—and before then at Riverside—punching things down. I wasted a lot of my life giving WAY too many shits about what people thought of me. It’s part of the reason why I decided to go on this trip, and why I’m grateful for it, even now. Out on the ocean, I learned to not define myself by others. I finally accepted parts of myself I otherwise probably would’ve never stopped hating._

_This isn’t how I wanted it to go, to be honest. Obviously not the dying-on-an-island-after-getting-captured-by-pirates part. You know I dreamt my death would be epic and movie-worthy. It’s not like I ever planned it, but, I don’t know, I wanted our story to be less_ Titanic _and more_ Sixteen Candles _, you know? I can already imagine you rolling your eyes at these references. So what? I like rom-coms. Shoot me. It’s not like you didn’t know—and I know you’ve seen them, too._

_Anyway, this notebook I packed doesn’t have that many empty pages left, so let me get to my point. I can’t die without telling you that I love you. I don’t like the expression “as more than a friend” because I feel like it’s dissing friendships, and our friendship is badass, so I’m not gonna do that. I guess “also romantically” works? You get the point. You always got me._

_I’m in love with you, Abed. It’s as simple as that, surprisingly. If I’m being honest with myself, I’ve been for years, but I kept punching it down and hiding it so deep even I couldn’t see it. It took me feeling like I was choking after being away from you for a month—and a long conversation with LeVar, who was real supportive—to realize it. Did you know La Forge was supposed to be gay? It’s actually a shame that never happened. I could’ve used seeing that. Maybe everything would have turned out differently if I had._

_If you ever read this, I’ll be dead by then, so, you know. No pressure. No expectations. Don’t feel like you have to reciprocate. This is more me crossing off that last item on my bucket list than anything. Obviously nothing can result from this near-death confession. That’s my one regret. Not the trip. Not anchoring on the Gulf of Mexico. Not keeping the numbers from the study group from the pirates. Never telling you, never taking that chance—that’s the only thing I’ll apologize for. I guess this is as close as I’ll get to it now. I guess that’s what I get for waiting. You deserve to know, though. Even if it’s like this. Hence this whole rant._

_Okay, correction: I’ll also apologize if this ruined your memories of our friendship. I would NEVER want to do that. As I said, our friendship is badass, and I wouldn’t change a second of it. I swear. Not even almost choking on a bunch of pencils. Yeah, you heard me right. Not even that._

_I had to tell you, but I don’t want you to get hung up on this. Please promise me you won’t, Abed. Every story has an ending. You know this better than anyone. And, yeah, this ending isn't the greatest, but it’s the only one we’ve got. I know you’ll want to, but don’t fight it. Let me go. It’ll be okay. You’ll be okay._

_My story’s pretty much over, but yours is far from it. Make me proud. Go out there and share your genius with the world. Name a character after me some time, will you? Make him hot, but don’t you dare cast Clive Owens. If you do it, I’ll kill you. I swear I will. Don’t underestimate revenge from beyond the grave._

_Goodbye, Abed. Thanks for everything._

_Missing you already,_

_Troy._

_P.S. I will always love you. I know I forced you to watch that movie, but aren’t you grateful for that now?_

_Seriously, though. I’m yours until the end, man. Always._

Abed folded the papers and softly pressed his lips against them. “I know,” he whispered to the letter as an answer to Troy’s confession, feeling an odd sense of deja vu he couldn’t pinpoint when he did. He expected the white noise pain to flood him after reading his best friend’s goodbye, after realizing the horrid way in which he’d died—alone and dehydrated and starving and terrified—but, although tears were openly running down his cheeks, he felt lighter than he’d felt in years. The letters had done what he’d been unable to since the green dot stopped moving. They soothed his ache into silence. He no longer had to punch it down and carry it, as Troy had put it. He felt the muscles of his heart, which had contracted around meager scraps of memories, holding onto them for dear life, relax and start to beat again. 

For once in his life, Abed understood Britta’s rants about the importance of closure, and for once in his life, Abed didn’t understand an acting choice he’d once admired. Thinking back on the last letter scene from _The Notebook_ he planned to use as a cover if someone walked in on him, Allie’s reaction confused him. Why would she sob as she read Noah’s last message? Abed was in her position, with a similar letter in his hand, and he thought there was no place for misery anywhere in this scene. Yes, he wasn’t prone to emotionality as it was, and he _was_ crying currently, but God—or, more accurately, Jack—had given him one final piece of Troy to keep. He felt nothing but gratitude.

He stayed unmoving on the couch, holding the letter against his chest—almost like an embrace—for a long time. When he finally rose, his joints resisted and cracked. He placed the papers in the water bottle before closing the lid, then placed it on his desk, turning it so the Greendale logo faced his chair. Abed wiped his eyes and his half-dried cheeks with his hands, took a deep breath, and stepped out of his office.

Caroline was leaning on the wall by the door, typing on her phone. When Abed appeared outside, she put it away and turned to face him. “How did it go?” she asked, looking him over, her voice soft.

Abed gave her a quick smile and a thumbs up. She grinned back.

He started in the direction of his set, and Caroline followed at his side. She was not particularly tall, even with her heels, but she did not struggle to keep pace with him.

“Could you tell Will to stay behind when we finish shooting today?” Abed said, facing forward. “I want to discuss his arc for next season. Oh, and Paul, too. The Shadow’s getting an upgrade.”

When they reached the set, Abed held the door open as Caroline walked in. He turned around to face the California sun and the expansive studio backlot that had become his home over the past few years.

 _Goodbye, Troy,_ he thought, looking upwards. _Thanks for coming back._

Abed walked into the set, closing the door behind him.


End file.
